


through your eyes

by curiositykilled



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eagle Vision (Assassin's Creed), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: He first sees it on his first night in Masyaf. There are glowing eyes inches from him. No - reflective, like a cat's. They gleam gold and too-bright in the darkness._______________5 +1 of Malik and Altaïr's Eagle Vision
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 19
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

He first sees it on his first night in Masyaf.

He wants to wail, to scream until they bring Kadar back to him, but he is tired in a way that's deeper than his feet, sore from the hot miles, or his muscles, aching from carrying heavy gear. Deep within his chest, between lungs and spine, his soul rages like a wild thing, tearing and clawing at whatever it can reach, but on the surface, he can barely summon the energy to feel at all.  
  
His new roommate is quiet, at least. The white-robed stranger who led Malik here had introduced him as Altaïr, and that had been the end of conversation.   
They settle into the thin mattress, a careful space between them. It feels lonely, wrong, to have emptiness where normally Kadar would be wrapped around him till he could hardly move. Malik rolls onto his side, fidgety, and freezes.  
  
There are glowing eyes inches from him. No - reflective, like a cat's. They gleam gold and too-bright in the darkness.  
  
After a moment, Altaïr blinks and the gleaming irises disappear. There's a rustle and the mattress shifts as the other boy resituates himself.  
  
"Good night, Malik," he says.  
  
"Good night," Malik answers by rote.  
  
So. These hooded strangers are part djinn. Another time, the thought would have sent him running from the room, but now he can only summon the energy to roll onto his belly and stare into the shadows for a moment longer before he gives up and closes his eyes. He falls asleep with the consolation that there are surely stranger things waiting in his future.


	2. Chapter 2

There's something about Altaïr that's different. To their instructors, it's special; to their peers, it's weird. After living with him for a few years, Malik's opinion has settled somewhere in between the two.   
  
He's undeniably gifted - he excels in their lessons as if he was born for this purpose alone. It would be easier to dismiss if he was only skilled in one area, if he didn't breeze past everyone else in every subject from hand-to-hand combat to history. As it is, everyone who has seen him knows he is exceptional. Malik has even caught Al Mualim watching during their lessons, arms folded and expression inscrutable.  
  
He's also odd. His fondness for high perches borders on the unnatural, and he has a tendency to look at his fellow brothers as if they aren't quite there, as if he can see down to the marrow of their bones. It lends him an inhuman air, some times. Pupils and teachers alike have fled that eerie stare.  
  
And, of course, there is his Sight.  
  
"What's it mean?" Malik asks one night.  
  
They're sitting cross-legged on either side of their mattress, cleaning the short daggers they only just earned the right to bear. Earlier in the afternoon, they'd been split into pairs for an exercise in hiding and finding quarries. He and Altaïr had come in first easily; they are the top students in the class, but they were guided by Altaïr's Sight.  
  
Now, Altaïr shrugs. Malik waits. Though Altaïr is rarely gregarious, he doesn't hold back information. It just takes him a little time to order his words.  
  
"I think it's about people's intent," he says. "Or my relationship toward them."  
  
It sounds like witchcraft. If Malik hadn't seen it in action, he knows he would discount it as childish fantasy - if not outright delusion.  
  
"So how do you tell who is who?" he asks.  
  
"Friends are blue," Altaïr answers immediately, "enemies are red, and important people are gold."  
  
"Important people?" Malik echoes.  
  
While the other two seem straightforward enough, that one sounds like even Altaïr isn't sure what it means.  
  
"If I'm looking for someone," Altaïr explains, "or - Al Mualim is gold, too."  
  
With how often their teacher is looking for Altaïr, Malik is almost tempted to suggest it's some sort of referred association. He doesn't ask what color he is. Maybe it's superstition, maybe it's fear he'll be disappointed by the answer. He doesn't let himself think about it now.  
  
"What's it like?" he asks instead.  
  
This time, Altaïr falls silent for a long while. He finishes cleaning the dagger and resheathes it, starts folding the cleaning rag into a tight little bundle.  
  
"Lonely," he says finally. "Disorienting."  
  
Malik frowns. The answer was the last he expected, and he isn't sure how to reply. Altaïr never seems lonely - or even that he necessarily notices being alone - and he never wavered as they ran through the citadel this afternoon. Malik brushes the thought away, unsettled, and stretches out his leg to kick lightly at Altair's.  
  
"Well, you're not alone," he says. "I'm here with you."  
  
Altaïr smiles, one of those small, private ones that only comes rarely and only when no one else is looking. He ducks his head, and his hands have finally stilled.  
  
"I know."


	3. Chapter 3

He finds him alone on a parapet. The wind pulls his robes out past the edge of the wall, wraps them tight around his skinny frame till he almost seems frail. For a fleeting moment, Malik’s heart lurches at the thought of the wind taking him, whisking him away like a dry leaf into nothingness. The thought of him falling doesn’t even cross his mind. It is inconceivable, even on such a precarious ledge.  
  
“There you are,” he says, putting on a pretense of annoyance to cover his brief, irrational worry.  
  
It also helps cover a much more deeply-seeded concern, that fear that’s been nagging at the back of Malik’s mind for the last three days, ever since news spread of Ahmad Soffias’ death. He hadn’t seen it, but he had been witness to the aftermath. To Altaïr hunched over the edge of their mattress, staring unseeing at his hands as if watching blood drip from them. To the silence, deeper and shock-rooted, that’s overtaken their room. To the nightmares that have started, suddenly, to wake Altaïr shaking from his sleep.  
  
Now, when Altaïr turns to Malik, his eyes glow. Startled, Malik pauses midstride and stares back. Altaïr never turns his Sight on Malik, not since that very first night. But there’s no mistaking that uncanny gleam; the gold that fills Altaïr’s irises can’t be caused by even the most honeyed of sun- or lamplight.  
  
“Altaïr?” he asks.  
  
His voice comes out smaller than he’s used to, unsure. Betrayal, irrational, stings at the back of his throat. Altaïr has always trusted him – he thought. But there’s no need for that Sight where trust lies.  
  
With a shuddering exhale, Altaïr blinks away the unearthly glow in his eyes and turns back to the front. He seems diminished somehow, as if his shoulders have bowed in that blink and his whole presence withered. For the first time, Malik pictures him slipping off this ledge and falling to death on the hard ground far below.  
  
“Altaïr?” he asks again, coming a step closer.  
  
“I am tired,” Altaïr says.  
  
It isn’t any kind of answer. Malik comes to a stop beside him, leaning against the low part in the wall next to Altaïr’s perch. He tilts his head, watching him. Other than his words, Altaïr gives no sign of acknowledgment. He stares out into the distance, past the far-off mountain peaks. In his eyes is an aching fatigue, a weariness born of deep-rooted sorrow.  
  
“I – I am just so tired.”  
  
His voice wavers, and Malik feels a flash of shock at the thought that Altaïr might cry. No tears come, though; Altaïr only bites down hard enough to make the muscles in the back of his jaw bulge. Finally, Malik reaches out a tentative hand and holds it palm up.  
  
“Then come,” he says. “Let us go rest. I’ll read to you.”  
  
It’s a bribe, and a familiar one. Altaïr is plenty capable of reading, of course, but over the years, he’s developed a habit of laying sprawled out on their bed and listening to Malik instead. Threat of death would be required for him to admit it, but Malik likes it. He likes the way Altaïr’s attention rests so fully and easily on him, and the way he may seem to doze but always perks up to ask a question right when Malik’s thinking of stopping. It feels intimate in a way he has never felt before, as if this is some secret partnership nurtured between only the two of them.  
  
Now, Altaïr gives a wane smile and takes Malik’s hand. He walks close enough to let Malik throw his arm around his shoulders, bumping into his side with the swaying of his gait. They’re halfway to their room when Altaïr leans his head against Malik’s shoulder.  
  
“I’m sorry, Malik,” he says. “I trust you.”  
  
The non sequitur should throw him, but instead Malik feels a small, warm burl of pleasure and relief.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s hard to remember that they used to be friends, now. They stopped sharing a room years ago, and Malik can hardly remember Altaïr’s face without the shadow of his cowl, much less easy with relaxation on their shared bed. Irritation roils up in his chest at his words, his walk, his silences. The moment Altaïr enters his sight, red boils over in his veins.  
  
And now, here they are on a mission together — with Kadar. Kadar, who still follows Malik but looks to Altaïr doe-eyed and amazed. Who practices things he’s seen Altaïr do as often as he practices the skills his actual teachers demonstrate.  
  
Malik doesn’t question their Mentor, but he thinks this trial might be unfairly weighed against him. If he doesn’t shove Altaïr from his horse and leave him here in the dust of the caves, he will surely deserve the rank of Master Assassin, if not Dai or a personal commendation from Al Mualim.  
  
He’s pictured three dozen ways of unseating Altaïr by the time they enter the caves, and then there’s the old man and red bubbles over and floods his vision.  
  
“Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent,” he hisses. “The very first tenet!”  
  
“Everything is permitted,” Altaïr rejoins, wiping the blade across the thigh of his tabard. “Now there are no witnesses.”  
  
Malik stares at him, teeth grinding in fury. Behind him, pebbles clatter against the stone floor as Kadar shifts. The torchlight catches the gold of Altaïr’s eyes under his hood, turn them animal and glittering. For the first time, Malik wants to hurt Altaïr. He wants to punch him straight in the face, feel the sick crunch of bone under his knuckles. He stands there with his jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack, and he wants Altaïr to hurt.  
  
“I’m going to scout ahead,” he grits out. “Stay here and try not to dishonor us further.”  
  
As he stalks down the hall, he can hear Kadar’s voice lift in a clear tone of admiration. His hackles rise further, but he forces himself to keep walking, to focus on the mission itself. Part of him wants to turn around and order Kadar to help him tie Altaïr up and leave him here. Between the two of them, they could surely do it. But he’s honestly not sure Kadar would do it. He’s not sure who holds greater sway over his brother now.  
  
Dragging his thoughts away, he forces himself again to focus on the task at hand. Distractions cost lives on missions, and while he wants to see Altaïr knocked down a peg, he doesn’t want him to die. If nothing else, Kadar would never forgive him if he let the idiot get himself killed.  
  
He finds a perch to survey the chamber below and crouches, tucking himself into the niche made by the rocky protrusion. Eyeing the Templars below, he half wishes he had Altaïr’s Sight around now: it’s clear enough to see the members of that cursed fraternity, but who among them are just laborers brought in to find this treasure? He lets his gaze wander the whole cavern, relaxing so that in his focus he doesn’t become tunnel-visioned.  
  
It’s as he’s doing this that he catches motion in the corner of his left eye and turns to see Altaïr stop short, far from where Malik had left him. Idiot, he thinks as he stares. This time, when he catches sight of gold beneath Altaïr’s hood, it’s not from the torchlight. Some measure of relief and surprise eases through Malik. He’s actually using his skills for good purpose. It would be prideful to assume Malik had gotten through to him but perhaps —  
  
Altaïr tenses, straightening slightly, and Malik follows his gaze. Hope, if he ever had any, rushes out of him like wind from sails. Robert de Sable. Of course.  
Before Malik can do anything more than stand up, start to move toward Altaïr, Altaïr is already dropping down from his perch and walking out into the midst of the Templars. Behind him, Kadar lingers on the outcropping, hesitant. Malik scours the room. There are too many for Altaïr, no matter how skilled or swift he is, to take on his own, and without surprise or stealth on their side, hopes of success are ruined. The smartest course of action would be to flee, to grab Kadar and run.  
  
But Malik is not so wise as he likes to pretend, and if Altaïr was doused in a cask of pride, Malik still got a barrel.   
  
He runs forward.


	5. Chapter 5

Even after most a year in Jerusalem, he’s never seen fog this thick. It blankets the whole city, turns it ethereal and unknowable. Familiar buildings are turned to looming shadows and the trees look like cloaked travelers pausing in their journey. He cannot see anyone and yet he feels eyes watching him from every side.  
  
He can’t remember the last time he trusted Altaïr at his back, and even now, he’d run him through with the sword in his hand if he let himself. It’s his fault they’re in this mess to begin with, of course. He can’t be trusted to follow the Creed even on a novice’s mission.  
  
“There are five soldiers coming,” Altaïr says.  
  
Malik twists around to meet his eyes, question already scalding his lips, but it dies without being uttered. Altaïr’s gaze is focused far afield, but Malik recognizes that distance. They gleam in the haze, unearthly.   
  
So there are five soldiers. They’ve taken more.  
  
“If you return to the bureau, I can distract them,” Altaïr says. “Draw them away and lose them.”  
  
It’s not phrased like an order but a suggestion, gentled somehow. Malik’s frown deepens into a crease between his brows. How unlike Altaïr to offer a plan that minimizes bloodshed. How strange for him to suggest rather than command.  
He turns to meet Malik’s gaze, eyes still eerie and too-sharp. After a beat, Malik nods and sheathes his sword.  
  
“Remember the creed, Altaïr,” he warns. “If you lead them back to the bureau, I will not open the gate.”  
  
Altaïr offers no objection, only nods and turns back toward the hidden soldiers. He cocks his head to one side before setting off, a light leap into the unseen. The fog swallows him, clouds wrapping around his body like welcoming arms, and he is gone.  
  
Malik’s journey back to the bureau is less direct, winding along streets and rooftops alike. He’s offered some protection by the fog, but he’s still hesitant to make too much noise or draw attention. Unlike Altaïr, he has no way of piercing the mist to spot his enemies before they see him.  
  
He makes it back undisturbed and finds himself at a loss of what to do once he’s inside. Shedding his damp djellaba, he drapes it over a chair to dry and then waits.  
  
His robe has dried and he’s stoked the fire by the time he hears the grate slide against the stone. Altaïr’s boots hit the tile with a soft thud, a sigh of fabric and flesh landing, and Malik pauses a beat before crossing the threshold into the atrium.   
  
He still crouches in the center of the courtyard, bracketed by the grey light falling through the grate, but he’s lifted both hands to press his thumbs to the ridge of his brow. Frowning, Malik crosses the room —and then stops short as Altaïr lifts his head. His eyes still glow. Gold fire rings them, blots out his pupils like a cat along a street at night.  
  
Pausing in his stride, Malik wonders what Altaïr sees. For the last months, all Malik has seen with Altaïr has been red. Roiling, viscous rage sharpens his words and points his hate. He can’t count the times he’s thought about killing him, about letting loose all that anger and finally ending this. A dagger would be too impersonal. He wants something more visceral, wants to reach in and rip out his throat, his heart, break his ribs one by one. He wants Altaïr to know what it’s like to lose everything.  
  
Unbidden, a memory comes to him. Their old room as novices, the quiet work of tending their first weapons. A slow admission, two words.  
  
He crosses the room and rests his hand tentatively on Altaïr’s shoulder. Swallowing, he feels the scarlet calm to blue.  
  
“You are in the bureau in Jerusalem,” he says. “You are not alone.”  
  
Altaïr meets his gaze, blinks, and at last, his sight is clear.


	6. Chapter 6

The night is still and warm, suspended in the room like smoke. Lantern light flickers against the walls, languid and golden, and it casts patterns against the walls and ceiling. Altaïr is draped over his legs, tracing patterns over his low belly with his fingertips. Neither of them are quite tired yet, still caught in that sated half-doze where neither wants to go to sleep just yet.   
  
It feels almost like when they were novices, back when they huddled together on the shared mattress for warmth instead. The grandmaster chambers make their old room feel like a broom closet, and they never would have dreamt of doing any of this back then. Still, some sense memory of that time echoes back in the comfortable silence they share.  
  
"What color am I?"  
  
He asks on impulse, on a half-thought whim. Altaïr looks up and cants his head, but there's no hesitance in his answer.  
  
"Blue."  
  
Malik can't quite explain the disappointment that follows. He hadn't had any expectations, and it's not as if Altaïr's sight grants everyone special auras. Still, perhaps some childish part of him had hoped he would be special in this. They have been intertwined since childhood, two trees wrapped around each other and branching out only to return and seek the sun together. In some small way, perhaps, he had wanted confirmation.  
  
"My ally," Altaïr continues, still idly tracing whorls into Malik's skin. "My partner. You have always been blue."  
  
It's the last part that catches him off-guard. Always.   
  
"Even—?"  
  
Altaïr hums his assent. His gaze has dropped to follow his finger up along Malik's chest.  
  
"It gave me hope when I did not deserve it," he admits. "And most needed it."  
  
He adds the last with a small smile, familiar and private. Looking up, he lets that smile linger and drops his hand to splay comfortably over Malik’s belly. A tangle of emotions leaves Malik wordless.   
  
Reaching down, he catches Altaïr’s hand and draws it to his lips instead, pressing a kiss to the scarred knuckles. When he resettles, it is with their hands still together, and Altaïr laces their fingers as they lie there. His gaze is soft and amber, no hint of his Sight as it rests on Malik’s face.  
  
“I was afraid to look the first time I came to Jerusalem,” he says, low and gentle. “To see that I had turned you against me irreparably. After that, I would check every now and then — as assurance.”  
  
He says the last with a small smile, rueful, deprecating. A pang jolts through Malik’s heart, and he tightens his hand around Altaïr’s. He had hated him so much at the time, had wanted nothing more than to rend him to shreds. Altaïr had deserved some of it, he knows, and he knows this isn’t asking for an apology or promise now. It’s an offering, a quiet admission of the loneliness Malik had long guessed at.   
  
“I am with you,” Malik promises now, anyway. “Even when you are being a novice.”  
  
As much as he affects exasperation in his tone, he knows it’s only a mask. Altaïr’s smile draws up into something broader, warmer, than crinkles by his eyes. It’s the kind of smile only Malik sees, a gift he holds close. Ducking his head, Altaïr presses a kiss to Malik’s hand and looks up. The smile remains.  
  
“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've got so many AC WIPs on my laptop but I'm attempting to finish them up and post them now orz
> 
> as always, I'm @ curiosity-killed on the tungle


End file.
